


Of Death and Victory

by wingedknightRose



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gender-Neutral Summoner | Eclat | Kiran, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Not Beta Read, Other, but then alfonse kicked in the door and told me point blank it was now hurt/comfort, heroes headcanons abound obvs, its feh so they get better but do be aware of that, no name is used for the summoner, one of the deaths is a child, so if you're having a bad time please remember that alfonse fireemblem loves you, takes place over books 1 - 3, the summoner Does Not Cope with some of this shit, this was originally gonna be a pure angst fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22553710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedknightRose/pseuds/wingedknightRose
Summary: They said death had no power over the Summoner.(How the Summoner wished that were true.)
Relationships: Alfonse & Summoner | Eclat | Kiran, Alfonse/Summoner | Eclat | Kiran
Comments: 17
Kudos: 127





	Of Death and Victory

**Author's Note:**

> “We can revive Heroes who fall during battle as long as you’re with us, Summoner. Still, though this reverses the ravages of the battlefield, they feel pain — just as we do.”

They hailed them as a hero. A legend of old. Victory incarnate.

The stories swept through the barracks, and then the army, and then the kingdom itself with an alarming speed. Not even a week after they arrived the whispers were everywhere. Victory had come to Askr. They would Summon the greatest warriors of all the worlds and deliver them from the ever growing threat of Embla.

They said that death had no power over the Summoner.

(How the Summoner wished that were true.)

* * *

It was hardest in the beginning. They had never seen violence on this scale in person. Their life might not have be all sunshine and rainbows, but personal tragedy did little to brace one for the bitter indifference and callous cruelty that was war.

That they had been removed from everything they’d ever known, and anyone that might have turned to, only made it worse. Who could they ask for help? Those that were already here looked to them like they were the Messiah, come to deliver them all from evil. And it wasn’t like they could just Google “how to win a war” and expect to get all the answers they were seeking. None of the wars back home involved books that could drop meteors onto their opponents’ heads or great dragons that could tear people apart as easily as paper.

(After their first battle they had spent hours heaving, even long after there was nothing left in their body to purge. Matthew had been the one to find them, had brought them water and stayed around to make sure they drank it. They never did manage to tell him how grateful they’d been, but by the look in his eyes, he already knew.)

The Order did their best to help. The servants made sure they had everything they could possibly need, food and clothes and books and whatever else. The Heroes did what duties they could to lighten their load, and did their best to talk to them. Sharena took it upon herself to guide them through their castle, to introduce them to everyone, to fill their silence with anything she could think of, anything to take their mind off of how they had just been ripped from their home. More often than not they found her overwhelming, but it came from a place of such genuine kindness that they couldn’t bare to tell her to stop. Nor could they bare to acknowledge the way she’d watch them with such worry when they went days without speaking.

A month into their stay, Alfonse broke from his established distance and began to ask questions about their home. It was a struggle to answer, and even more of one to answer in such a way that he understood, but he seemed to know that. His questions were always simple, safe; food they ate regularly, their manner of dress, what sorts of books they liked to read. It took time for them to be able to speak of it all, but he was nothing if not endlessly patient. They made sure to thank him for that, though words never felt like enough.

(One morning they found pancakes in the mess hall and clothes that were almost jeans and t-shirts and hoodies but not quite laying on their bed and books of their favorite genre sitting on their desk, and they were nearly beside themselves with emotion. They hadn’t known how much they missed such simple things until someone tried to give them back to them. They’d nearly crushed Alfonse’s ribs, they’d hugged him so tightly, unable to even vocalize their gratitude through their muffled sobs.

He had awkwardly pat their back and pet their hair and said nothing. The look in his eyes was unfathomable in that moment, sympathy and relief and sorrow and steely determination, all wrapped in genuine care. Somehow, the Summoner knew that Alfonse would be their rock, even if no one else could.)

* * *

They watched each and every one of them die.

It wasn’t like they wanted to. They had to be on the battlefield to be able to give relevant orders. And they tried to give good orders, really, they did. They tried to take everything into account and make the decision that would bring the least costly victory. But they weren’t used to this pressure, and this wasn’t a game, they couldn’t pause and think things through or restart when things didn’t go how they’d expected them to. They had one shot. It was win or die.

Or, more often in those first days, it was win _and_ die. But so long as they won, dying didn’t matter. As long as the Summoner was alive, the rest of them were functionally immortal. Their life was the only one that really mattered.

(They apologized, over and over and over again, each time death claimed one of their own. It would take days before they could meet the eyes of the fallen.)

It was never easy watching any of them die, but Raigh was the worst by far.

The first time it had happened the Summoner had watched blankly as he bled out, horror choking everything else. There had been so much blood. He was small, so small, how could someone so small bleed so much? He was just a child, and they had led him to his death, a child, a _child—_

He died calling for his brother. His voice had been so small. They had thought it so unlike him, this prickly child who claimed to care for no one but himself. He should not sound small and scared as he called for his family—

(Years later, they met the brother Raigh was so keen to protect, who he was willing to die over and over and over again for even the chance of being stronger for. He was sweet and gentle and so, so bright, and they hated themselves for bringing him into this maelstrom of death. When they told him Raigh was here, walked him towards where his brother was staying, he’d looked up at them with a bright smile and thanked them for looking after his brother. They had nearly choked as the guilt and self-loathing exploded within them. They had not been looking after him at all.)

* * *

Anna made it sound so simple. It wasn’t that simple.

They could revive Heroes, yes. They could undo the death they had wrought on their followers. But nothing would ever change the fact that they had died, had died on the Summoner’s orders, and there was little that could erase the memories of those deaths from the minds of everyone involved.

That wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that they kept following them. That they forgave them. The Summoner hated it. They shouldn’t trust them. They shouldn’t put their lives into the hands of someone who could only throw them away, over and over and _over again_ for a cause that none of them should even be fighting for, dying for. This was Askr’s war, Embla’s war, not Altea’s and Zofia’s and Granvell’s and Lycia’s and — it was not _theirs_. It never really would be.

Soren had said, right from the start, that they shouldn’t be in charge. Others had been upset at the notion, but they had agreed with him, almost giddy with relief that someone had gotten it. They had tried to give him command, but no one would hear of it. The Summoner was Victory and it was Victory that should lead them into battle. Death had no bite with them here.

(That wasn’t true, was never true. The wild looks of agony and despair on the faces of Heroes that fell, the way they gasped and had to steady themselves when they were revived, told the Summoner all they needed to know. Death did not simply bite here, it gnawed, slowly, insidiously, on and on and on still.)

They had practically begged for Soren to teach them, offered him anything he could think to ask for and then some to get him to stay and save everyone from their incompetence. He had relented, eventually, muttering something about what someone important to him would want him to do.

(And if they had spent the evening sobbing in relief when he’d agreed, that was no one’s business but their own.)

* * *

It wasn’t always a death they’d inadvertently caused that they were undoing.

Sometimes the Heroes they summoned were fated to die. Sometimes these Heroes were pulled from their worlds on death’s doorstep. There was never any warning, no way of knowing who was going to turn up, much less what state they would be in. No one had even known it had been possible to pull someone from certain death until Lachesis had collapsed in front of them on the summoning alter, battered and frail and delirious from pain and starvation and who knew what else.

It was a good thing Alfonse had come with them to the summoning ruins that day, because otherwise Lachesis might have actually died while the Summoner just stared in uncomprehending shock. Alfonse had shaken them from their stupor and had taken it upon himself to carry Lachesis back to the castle while the Summoner ran ahead, calling for what few healers they had in what was just shy of breathless hysteria.

Lachesis recovered with time and care. Lissa told them that had they found her any later, she likely wouldn’t have. But even a fated death was banished by the Summoner’s call, it seemed. Whispers of it caught like a wildfire. Death had no power here, not with the Summoner around.

Watching Lachesis struggle to eat soup, the Summoner wondered if this really was kinder. There were no friends to celebrate her miraculous recovery, no family to help her through her struggle to adapt. The only other Jugdrali in Askr was Seliph, whom she had never really had the chance to know. The Summoner wondered if keeping her here was the right thing to do; to pull her from one death and into many, all for strangers.

(When they worked up enough courage to ask her about it, Lachesis agreed that her situation had no good choices. But at least here she might again meet those that death had stolen from her, and had stolen her from. The Summoner tried to take those words to heart, to fortify themselves with the possibility. If they could bring some joy in all this death, then maybe this suffering was worth something in the end.)

* * *

Sometimes the ones fated to die were summoned long before those bitter last moments.

Roy had been one of the first summoned. His father had followed soon after. But it was his mother’s arrival that had been memorable, for the way he had taken her hand with such giddy joy. She had died before he was really old enough to remember her, he had told them. Now he could know her as more than a bedtime story.

The Summoner would never forget Lilina’s tears of joy when she had first seen Hector. He had not yet even married, much less had a daughter, but she could only see the father she had lost too soon. It was awkward at first, but they quickly made sense of it all, to the joy of both and all their friends.

Perhaps the greatest of these reunions was piecing back together the shattered families of Jugdral. Watching Ares’s expression brighten, just slightly, when his father praised his swordsmanship, or Ethlyn fret over Quan and Leif when an afternoon ride had seen them caught in a sudden rainstorm, or Deirdre reading her favorite fairy tales to her children as Sigurd watched on - it was like getting wrapped in a fuzzy blanket fresh out of the dryer. Soft and warm and comfortable. 

(The Summoner had told Alfonse that moments like those made them grateful for their power. His smile had been warm and relieved, and he had almost taken their hand. He never forgot those words; he would always point out the broken families the Summoner had managed to stitch back together in defiance of fate and mortality when they were feeling their most hopeless.)

Sometimes the reunions were more complicated.

When Lloyd had first followed the Summoner back to the castle, Nino had not believed it was real. She had thought him a ghost, an illusion, a cruel trick of her own wishful thinking. How else could her brother forgive her for having a hand in his death? It had taken days for the reality of it to sink in. It had taken longer for her to stop panicking when he vanished from her sight for longer than an hour, convinced that he had died again, or that he hated her. Eventually things worked out, but there was always an edge of hysteria in Nino’s actions when Lloyd went on missions without her.

(When Linus eventually turned up, things were somehow better and worse. Thankfully, they all had known what was coming, and so everyone got the support they’d needed.)

When Eirika had opened her door to find the Summoner standing there, Lyon beside them, she had nearly strangled the both of them with the force of her embrace. Neither of them had known how to handle it; normally Eirika was so composed, seeing her alternating between tearful apologies and bleary-eyed joy threw them both off-kilter. Lyon had no idea what Eirika was even apologizing for, and she couldn’t seem to find the words to tell him. All she could say was that she was sorry, that she wasn’t there when he’d needed her the most, and that she’d do anything to change things.

(Sometime later, the Summoner learned the story from Seth. Lyon had fallen to despair and been possessed by the demon king the Summoner had mostly banished from him. Despite their desperate searching, in the end, there was nothing Eirika and her brother could do but kill him and set his spirit free. The Summoner thought of Lyon’s missing memories, of the way Eirika constantly reached for his hand as if to remind herself that he was real, and how she looked at them like they had lit the stars in the sky, and understood.)

It was some time before Ephraim appeared in Askr. He was friendly and amiable and willing to work with them in exchange for learning what he could from the others here. While they walked him to the stables so he could tend to his horse, he mentioned there being someone he wanted to see again, if at all possible in this strange realm, his eyes full of a deep, melancholic guilt. The Summoner had been unable to hide their smile, nor the giddiness in their voice when they told him that _actually, there’s a couple of someones here that have been wanting to see you._ He had asked about it, but they had refused to say, simply tugged his hand and took off in a run once his horse was settled, half-dragging him towards the library where they knew that Eirika and Lyon were currently pouring over magical theory. They nearly kicked in the door in their excitement; still it paled to the utter joy on Eirika and Lyon’s faces when they saw who it was that they’d been interrupted by.

The pair dragged Ephraim inside, laughing and crying and laughing more when he’d asked them all if this was real. Lyon had taken his hand and assured him that it was. He had wrapped them both into a tight embrace in return. As the Summoner slipped away to let them have their reunion in private, they caught his eye, saw the tears gathering there. _Thank you_ he had mouthed. They had no idea how to reply, so they merely smiled and shrugged and shut the door quietly.

(Later that evening, during the welcoming feast full of Renais food, Ephraim caught up to them. He took their hand in his own and held their gaze with such heartfelt intensity that they couldn’t do anything but hold still and listen. He told them that in exchange for this chance they had given him, they could ask for anything of him, anything at all, and he would do it without hesitation. They had not been able to reply, could only stare mutely as he thanked them again and then took a seat between the two most important people in his life. Alfonse had tugged them into a seat of their own, telling them they needed to eat, smiling in a way they could swear he had only ever reserved for Sharena.)

* * *

For all they were familiar with death, they were still removed from it. Until, abruptly, they were not.

It wasn’t the first time an attempt on their life had been made. Veronica’s Xander had tried to cut them down within an hour of their arrival in Zenith. Assassins weren’t out of the ordinary. But none of them had come so _close_.

It had taken them a moment too long to process what was happening when the gateway began to close between them and Alfonse. They heard him crying out, panic seeping into his voice, and that scared them. They had never heard Alfonse panic. Even when he was stressed, he made an effort to maintain control. Such fear made them afraid before they even knew why they should be.

(It didn’t take long to figure out that they should be very afraid.)

Princess Veronica was not an imposing figure. In fact, she was rather the opposite. They had been bemused when they’d first been told that she was the reason for all of this fighting. A kid like her, waging war. Why? What had happened? None of them knew, and it wasn’t like she was the sort to tell them. But she was small and slight and she seemed sad, not spiteful or sadistic. It gave her an air of vulnerability that made the Summoner want to sit her down and talk to her. To ask who had hurt her to make her lash out so much.

(The more they learned the truth about the Emblian royal family from Bruno, the more horrified they became. That was not a fate they would wish on anyone.)

There was none of that air of vulnerability now.

Instead there was an aura of pure menace around her, a glint of lethal intent in her gaze that was all the more unsettling for her youthful features. It was like they were looking at a completely different person, somehow. Even when they had faced her before, it had not been like this.

They knew they were about to die before she even opened her mouth to speak.

The realization was like a shot of ice in their veins. _They were going to die._ They were going to die, they didn’t want to die, they weren’t ready, what about all the people back home, what about the heroes, what about Alfonse and Sharena—

The thoughts jumbled together and crashed into each other, leaving them in a mind-numbing terror. They tried to reach for something, anything they could do to prevent this, but the only thing they could think about was how they _didn’t want to die._

A smile curled Veronica’s lips as she raised her hand to cast the spell. The Summoner choked on a sob. They didn’t want to die—

—A miracle saved them. A voice, foreign and familiar all at once, going by a name they knew but had no face to match with. If Veronica had turned their blood to ice, than Zacharias had turned it to electricity, his voice galvanizing them and pushing them to move faster than they’d thought themselves capable of. He held off their death, and they ran into the reopening gate without looking back.

When they reached the other side they all but collapsed onto Alfonse, pale and shaking and failing to bite back tears. Were they crying from fear or relief? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were alive, they were alive and they were safe and they didn’t care about maintaining the facade of a legendary hero because if things had gone just slightly differently they _would have died._

Sharena had all but tackled them, sandwiching them between her and her brother. Anna had taken over giving orders. The rest of the Heroes hovered for days after the fact.

Alfonse stayed by the Summoner the entire time, his hand clinging to theirs. Or maybe it was them that clung to him. It hardly mattered one way or another, so long as he was close. They felt safer with him.

(This was not the last time the Summoner faced their own death. It wasn’t even the worst of those moments. But it had been the first, the one that had shown everyone that legend or not, they were as mortal as everyone else.)

* * *

Of all the people that had told them that they weren’t cut out for the job they had, the Black Knight was perhaps the strangest.

They had encountered him in the Tempest, saved him from being lost despite the very, _very_ pointed protests of some of the Greil Mercenaries. Titania had refused to speak to them for a week and a half when they’d announced that he was joining the Order. That had stung, even if they understood where it came from. It still stung, even after she had apologized.

The Black Knight made no effort to hide his thoughts on his situation. He was here to repay a debt and perhaps find an opponent or two worth fighting. The Summoner was too soft to be in charge of an army. They honestly should just execute Veronica and have done with it. They never told him to stop, even when others thought they should have. He wasn’t exactly wrong, killing Veronica would be the simplest solution. And, honestly, they had been telling everyone they shouldn’t be running an army from day one. Having a general say the same just validated their point.

Despite apparently thinking that the Summoner shouldn’t be in charge, he’d rather pointedly declared that he was their new bodyguard without warning or fanfare. No one could talk him down. Though, to be fair, the Summoner didn’t particularly try. The Black Knight was very, _very_ good at what he did, and after that incident with Veronica it just seemed sensible for them to have a dedicated protector. Alfonse and Anna had okayed it, and that was that.

It took time, but eventually the two of them came to an understanding. The Summoner would have even called him their friend, though they had no idea if he would reciprocate. They never did learn his name — not for lack of trying — but he’d eventually relented and allowed them to give him one, false thought it might be. He would huff at their jokes, and make some dry observations of his own, and would offer quiet help whenever they couldn’t see a way forward. At one point he had even talked them out of a panic attack. They, in turn, had begun to trust him enough to confess problems they didn’t feel comfortable sharing with others, ask questions, seek advice. He never seemed bothered. They wondered if he wasn’t, or if he was just good at faking it.

(Eventually, after he’d left and come back, they’d worked up the courage to ask him. He’d assured them that he’d found a quiet joy in their implicit trust, even if he never felt like he earned it. It was why he’d wanted to come back.)

Towards the end of things with Embla, they had asked him why he had decided to be their bodyguard, even when he thought they were too soft to lead. He’d told them it was _because_ they were so soft that they needed protecting so badly. They were the heart of the army, and even someone like him could see it.

(Later, he’d repeated that, adding that without them, the Order of Heroes would never be as effective as it was. He said he knew soldiers that would give everything they had for a commander like them, one that cared for them as people instead of disposable assets.)

He’d left after things with Embla had settled down, seeing his duty as done. He wasn’t the first to leave, but he was the closest to them to do so, and they made no effort to hide that they’d miss him. He’d called them a fool, but they could have sworn they heard the smile in his voice.

He told them that once he had done everything he needed to in his world, he’d consider coming back. It was the closest thing to an _I’ll miss you too_ they were ever going to get.

(In the midst of the horror of Nifl and Múspell and Surtr, the Black Knight did come back. They hadn’t been expecting it, which made the shock of watching him collapse in a pool of his own blood all the worse. Alfonse had not come with them that day, so there was no one to shake them out of their terror. No one heard them tearfully begging him not to die, not when everything was going wrong and they needed all the help they could get and they finally, _finally_ got to see his face.

Everyone heard them shouting desperately for help, struggling to haul him back to where he could get the medical attention he so desperately needed.

No one had been able to pry them away from his sickbed. They barely managed to keep from dissolving into tears of relief when he finally woke up two days later. _Don’t ever worry me like that again,_ they had demanded (pleaded).

He looked so surprised to see them. Or was he surprised to see how much they cared? They didn’t know. It didn’t matter. He had managed a weak smile and an apology. He acted like he didn’t know how to handle having someone so distraught over his injuries. Like he didn’t know how to be cared about.

The blatant shock on his face when they’d confessed to missing him broke the Summoner’s heart. No one should have to wonder about the sincerity of such simple kindness.

He apologized again, and, with the slightest beginnings of a smile, added, _by the way, my name is Zelgius._ )

* * *

Their duty was death. At the end of the day, they were meant to send Heroes into battle to kill the enemy and secure victory. They’d been getting better at it, too, under the tutelage of Soren and the Robins and all the others who had more experience in battle than they did, which was honestly just about everyone. The number of times they watched their own die were rapidly diminishing. Their confidence was growing.

They were grateful that they were finally coming into their own. For once it felt like they weren’t just fooling everyone. That maybe they could actually win this.

But, no matter how good at dealing death they became, the Summoner treasured the moments they could prevent it more than anything. No hard-won victory would ever amount to even a single death avoided. Each tragedy they could avert, each misfortune they could remedy, they were worth every bit of suffering they’d endured since coming here.

Alfonse raised his sword, intent on executing the masked man. His eyes were hard, harder than they’d ever seen, and it might have scared them if they hadn’t known they could stop it.

All it took was a hand on his wrist, and he froze. He turned to them, and even through the haze of hurt and vengeance, they could see the trust he held for them. He stopped because they had asked him to. In that moment, they realized that he would do anything they asked him to. They wondered if he knew.

Gently they pulled his sword arm down, to his side. Quietly they told him the truth they had pieced together. Alfonse stared at them in shock, but there was no disbelief. He trusted them with everything that he was.

They wondered when that had happened. They wondered if they’d earned it.

(Later, when they asked him that very question, he’d responded without hesitation. _Of course you have._ )

Alfonse’s voice was steady as he asked Bruno if they were right. If the friend he’d been so desperate to find was kneeling before him, begging to die. They would have thought him in complete control of the situation if they couldn’t feel his hand trembling under their own.

The truth came out, and tragedy was averted. A friendship was rekindled, tentative but true. A promise was made. They would save Bruno — Zacharias — someway, somehow.

(That evening, when they were in camp, Alfonse sought them out. This time it was he who initiated the embrace, burying his head in the crook of their neck. _Thank you for stopping me,_ he whispered, again and again, _I would not have been able to bear killing him._ They held him in return, hoping the tightness of the hug would say everything they couldn’t find words for.)

* * *

They had not been prepared for Múspell.

Embla had caused problems, yes, but Veronica had never attacked the villages and cities of Askr. Her interest was in Heroes, and in stomping out the Order for standing against her. There was very little collateral damage from their fights. She wanted to control the people of Askr, not kill them.

Surtr delighted in watching them burn.

The first ruined village they’d come across had seen the Summoner heaving, as if it were their first battle all over again. The stench of burned flesh was overwhelming. Even the most hardened of the Heroes had struggled with it. The complete decimation was painful to see.

It only got worse the more the war dragged on. Sometimes, they were far too late to do anything, finding only ashes and dust. Sometimes they were just barely too late, and they had to contend with the agonized screaming of those that hadn’t yet died. They did what they could, but they could only save so many.

(And what kind of life did those survivors have waiting for them? One of scars and aches and a fear of fire, one where they had to contend with the fact that most everything they’d ever had had vanished into flames. But they were alive, and that meant they could hopefully pick up the pieces and make them into something worth living for.)

Sometimes, they were right on time. It wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

Seeing Gunnthrá sprawled out in the snow, covered in burns and barely holding on, had caused the Summoner to collapse at her side. They hadn’t known her, not really, but she had trusted them, and they were supposed to have been able to save her. She had trusted them, and all it had gotten her was suffering and death. Wasn’t the Summoner supposed to be able to put a stop to this? Wasn’t that supposed to be their power? She had bet everything on them and she had lost.

Yet still she smiled at them, sweetly serene despite the agony she must have been in. Still she passed on what she had promised, still she declared that she believed in them. And then the flames took her.

The Summoner had fallen backwards with a strangled yelp at the gout of flame, clutching the gem Gunnthrá had given them to their chest. Distantly they heard Gunnthrá’s scream of pain, Fjorm’s wail of despair, Surtr’s manic laughter. But they could do nothing more than numbly stare until the fire abated, and then stare some more when they realized there was nothing left of the body, not even ashes. They kept staring at the spot until Alfonse had pulled them to their feet and dragged them away, lest Surtr burn them, too.

The camp they’d eventually made had been silent as the grave, save for the sound of Fjorm’s broken sobs. Sharena was doing her best to tend to her, arms wrapped tight around her torso as she wept into her chest. Alfonse tended to the Summoner, doing everything he could to convince them that this wasn’t their fault. It was a battle they weren’t sure he could win. They had failed before, but never as completely as they had just failed Gunnthrá.

(It turned out that they hadn’t failed as completely as they’d thought. Some weeks later, when they were readying to push into Múspell, Gunnthrá was summoned. She had been in much the same state as they had seen her last, with harsh burns all over her body with the exception of her face, because Surtr had wanted them to be able to _see_ her suffering. She recovered under treatment, never said an ill word of the Summoner or anyone else in the Order for not being quicker, and hid the scars under her long robes.

It didn’t matter. The Summoner still couldn’t look her in the eyes. She was a living ghost, one they couldn’t bring themselves to face.)

* * *

Sometimes, the deaths they were undoing hadn’t happened yet. Sometimes they had. And sometimes, it was both at once.

Berkut was prickly, and stuck-up, and honestly he was exactly the sort of person the Summoner would have hated back home. Maybe they did hate him, a little bit. But he had been the first Hero they’d recruited by challenging and defeating him, and that made him special in some way or another. A reminder of what they could accomplish, if nothing else. So they put effort into training him, and eventually he and they had reached an understanding. Perhaps they could even have called him a friend.

They had not suspected Berkut’s fate. They’d had an inkling that his story might not have a happy ending, what with the way some of the Deliverance reacted to him and he to them, but they hadn’t known until Alm had arrived.

Alm was friendly, and cheerful, and curious. He was open and humble. An opposite of Berkut in many ways. The Summoner would not have guessed at their connection just by looking at them. Perhaps they had some similar facial features, but honestly, that didn’t mean much. People looked like other people all the time.

Alm had taken to Askr quite nicely. It helped that several of his friends were here, to bring some familiarity to it all. He was laughing and joking and just being a nice person to be around, at first. Then he paused, turning to look at something in the distance. And then the joy died.

When they turned to follow his gaze, the Summoner saw Berkut in the distance, leading his horse away from the stables, presumably to take a leisurely ride in the surrounding countryside. Turning back, they saw Alm still staring, expression a mix of regret and grief and longing and _hope._ They had to nudge him a bit to get him to snap out of it, at which point he immediately asked after Berkut. They had answered as well as they were able, and he had explained the circumstances in turn. Their heart broke for him, to have to find family only to be forced to kill them. They felt for Berkut, too — they had noticed little things about him, certain things he said or did, that made them wonder at what kind of life he’d really had. Then to find out that he had been lied to his entire life, and, well. If they ever met with this Emperor Rudolf, they would have a great deal to say to him, and none of it would be kind.

They did their best to help bridge the gap between Alm and Berkut, to give them both a chance. It was rough going, to say the least, but Alm never lost hope. He had fought men and monsters and even slain a god — he would reach his cousin if it was the last thing he did. He might not have been able to save the Berkut he had known, but he could do right by this Berkut, and to him that counted for something.

(Finally meeting Rinea had made the knowledge of the fate that awaited her and her lover even worse. She deserved nothing of what was coming. Thankfully, she was also far less stubborn about dealing with Alm — and through her gentle encouragement, Berkut eventually began to come around. The Summoner was glad Alm had never lost hope. They were glad they could give it to him in the first place. It was things like this that made their role worthwhile.)

* * *

Everything came at a price. Even victory.

The Summoner had lost everything they’d known in exchange for their power. Gunnthrá had died to give them the chance to cleave through Surtr’s flames.

(And Fjorm, too, was looking wan. They worried about her all the more when they learned of the cost of the Rite of Flames. It and the Rite of Frost were so similar, it wasn’t hard to imagine that they required the same sacrifice. It made their stomach churn, thinking that someone had to sentence themselves to a slow death so they could have a hope of winning.)

The price of that final confrontation was Surtr’s generals. In any other context, this probably would have seemed like an acceptable price to pay. They were the enemy, after all. Servants of a madman, accomplices to the ruin of a kingdom and the slaughter of countless innocents. But the Summoner was under no illusions - Helbindi and Laegjarn were as much victims as any of the people of Nifl. They had hoped that they could save them, free them from the tyrant that was their king and let them live their own lives. Such was not to be.

They never found out what, exactly, had happened to Helbindi. But seeing as he was last seen confronting Surtr, they couldn’t imagine it was anything good.

(Even after he’d been summoned, they never found out exactly what had happened during that confrontation, or what had led to it. He never offered to tell, and they never could bring themselves to ask. But the wistful way he would watch Ylgr interact with her siblings when he thought no one else was looking was answer enough.)

They did see exactly what happened to Laegjarn. They wished they hadn’t.

The amount of desperation that must have fueled her decision was palpable as she spoke the rite. The flames ate at her even as she fought, her movements growing jerky the longer the battle dragged on as the pain ate away at her control. They watched the fire take her eyes, and still she clung to life, all to beg for her sister’s. That kind of love - that kind of devotion - they knew it. They knew it well, because they could say without any doubt that they would set themselves ablaze if it meant no one in their care would ever have to die again. It didn’t make watching any easier, nor did it unblock their throat as Laegjarn lay dying, wishing that things might have been different.

All they could do was honor her final wish, and save Laevatein from the same fate.

(Laegjarn had eventually been called by Breidablik as well, and appeared in a sorry state, the same as all the rest. The Summoner didn’t know if it was some miracle of the healers’ or if it was Breidablik’s power of revival, but she eventually had her sight restored. She integrated herself into the army without complaint, dedicating herself to their cause as thanks for the life of her sister.

Every time the Summoner looked at her, all they could see was the burned out pits where her eyes should have been.)

* * *

Festivals were a good break from all the chaos of war. The Day of Devotion especially so, they found. Celebrating the bonds between friends and family and yes, lovers too - that was something the Summoner could get behind.

(They were glad it was different from Valentine’s Day. Some of the other festivals hit so close to home it made it hard to enjoy them, sometimes.)

Perhaps this year they were feeling a bit more impish than normal. Perhaps the victory over Múspell finally felt real, and it buoyed them. Or perhaps it was just that the timing was too convenient to pass up. Likely it was a combination of the three.

It was tradition for them to give gifts to the Heroes on days like this. Something to let them all know how much they appreciated their support. So the Greil Mercenaries didn’t think much of being asked to meet them at the fountain plaza for theirs.

When they found the Summoner rocking on their heels and grinning like a fool, well, then they knew something was up. They had said nothing, just pointed the mercenaries towards someone who was stepping out from behind a stall.

The look on Ike and Mist’s faces as they saw their father, alive and whole and healthy again, was indescribable. Mist had all but thrown herself at him, eyes bright with tears. Ike had followed at a slower pace, smile uncertain as if he didn’t quite believe this was happening. The rest of the mercenaries had followed - Titania had gasped and nearly started crying herself, Oscar had laughed in the manner of someone who had just seen something unbelievably wonderful, Mia had cheered with joy. Even Soren seemed happier, if that slight softening of his expression was anything to go by. He was still being sour about the festival, but…not quite as much.

He did ask them how long they had been planning this. They told him the truth - Greil had only been summoned a few days ago, and had only been cleared to leave the infirmary yesterday evening. The timing had been too perfect; what better way to celebrate family than to put a family rent by tragedy back together again?

The Summoner had made to slip away during the reunion - watching families reunite was wonderful, but also bittersweet. There was no reunion in store for them.

Before they could, a large hand wrapped around their bicep and gently pulled them back. _Where are you going?_ Ike asked. When they explained that they didn’t want to intrude on the family reunion, he’d shaken his head, still smiling as he gently pulled them back towards the rest. _You’re part of the family too._

There were no words to describe the joy hearing that brought them.

* * *

In retrospect, the fact that they were challenged by death herself was funny. Everyone made a big deal about the Summoner being stronger than death, so why wouldn’t the queen of the dead rise to contest that claim?

It had not been at all funny when they were living through it.

Fighting soldiers with broken armor and grisly wounds was harrowing, to say the least. Nothing short of a fatal blow would stop them, and they never left bodies. It was a zombie horror scenario, which the Summoner might also have found entertaining if they weren’t too busy being worried about what it meant for them and theirs. For all their bodies and armor were ruined, their weapons were sharp and their spells were potent. And worst still, when they claimed lives of soldiers or civilians, their victims joined the army of the damned.

That meant that the Order, and specifically the Summoner, were the best answer to the problem. After all, if the Heroes could be brought back from the dead, they couldn’t become a part of the enemy army.

The initial skirmishes went well enough. In some ways, fighting the dead was better - they didn’t leave bodies behind, twisted and butchered by the jaws of war. There were no blank eyes staring up at nothing when all was said and done. At least, they kept telling themselves that to make coping easier. They liked to think they were doing pretty well.

That was until they found the generals.

The woman had sparked recognition. She was so similar to someone else they knew, it gave them pause. They wrote it off as her being a distant ancestor of Bruno and Veronica - some things had to have been passed down the line.

Something about the man had been so viscerally _familiar_ that it had made them stop short. His posture, his build, the color of his hair. It was like looking at the negative of a photo of someone they knew - the features were there but they were distorted enough that figuring out who it was was a challenge.

Líf, he had introduced himself as. The same name as the first king of Askr. It didn’t feel right. That name didn’t go with that voice. They knew this man, but they didn’t know how they knew. They knew the way he stood and the way he moved and the way his eyes narrowed as they drove his forces back, the way he sheathed his blade and turned on his heel when they had routed his detachment. They knew him, but they didn’t know from _where._

(And they knew the look in his eyes when his gaze fell upon them, the quiet noise that had caught in his throat when they stood across from one another. They knew that softness so painfully well. They saw it every day, now.)

Everything about him was familiar, and that familiarity made fighting him feel so very _wrong._ Like they were betraying someone precious. They wouldn’t back down, but that feeling that they were missing something important would haunt them.

* * *

If they had thought facing their own death was terrifying, it was nothing compared to the prospect of losing Alfonse.

They had watched Alfonse die before. He had forged a contract with them, so they could bring him back as they brought back the Heroes. But somehow, they knew that when Hel’s curse took him, they wouldn’t be able to undo it. He would be gone for good.

The idea of losing him, _really_ losing him, wasn’t something they had ever wanted to consider. But now it was a reality they had to face.

It was all they could do to keep themselves together. They still had an army to run, after all, and they knew that if they gave up hope, the rest of the Order would follow. But that pressure just seemed too much when they were about to lose their rock. They couldn’t carry this burden alone. It would crush them. It _was_ crushing them.

They missed meals, they barely slept. They threw themselves into searching for a way to break the curse. Something. Anything. They’d already lost everything once, they didn’t want to start experiencing that again. They couldn’t do it.

Some people still whispered that so long as they had the Summoner, they needn’t worry. Alfonse would be fine because they were Victory, able to triumph even over death.

Every time they heard it, it made them want to scream. They weren’t anything special. They were just as powerless as everyone else.

When the day came, they couldn’t seem to stop shaking. It was only the knowledge that letting themselves fall to pieces would mean any chance of prevailing was lost that kept them going. They stuck by Alfonse, determined to do everything they could to keep him safe, gave the most ruthlessly efficient orders they’d ever given in their time in Askr. It was for nothing. Hel was not to be stopped.

They were about ready to try and fight her themselves, they were so desperate. They were not ready to give up any of their Heroes yet. They would fight tooth and nail to keep them from harm. It was all they could do to repay them for their kindness and support.

They did not have to fist-fight Hel. King Gustav did what they could not, and took the curse onto himself. He died, and Alfonse lived.

Alfonse and Sharena were devastated, of course. Distant though he might have been, Gustav was still their father, and they had lost him so suddenly. Alfonse felt the guilt keenly, despite their best attempts at reassuring him.

They felt a different kind of guilt. While Alfonse and Sharena mourned, the Summoner had wept with relief. Gustav was gone, but Alfonse was still here. Their rock was still with them, and they couldn’t help the joy that fact brought them. It felt _wrong,_ to be happy with an outcome that had hurt their friends so terribly. So much so that they had kept it to themselves, believing the confession would only make everything worse.

(Eventually they had told Alfonse, one late evening when they had finished going over plans, months after the raw pain had faded. His smile had been sad, but he had not blamed them. Instead he had taken their hand and told them _I am glad I am still with you as well._

They knew the confession had hurt him, no matter how understandable their feelings had been, but the fact that they had trusted him enough to be honest had soothed the ache.)

* * *

They were called Victory, but if they were being honest with themselves, that wasn’t actually what the Summoner wanted to be known as.

Victory wasn’t bad, of course. Everyone liked to win. But they had tasted the bittersweet draught of a hollow victory far too often to think that Victory was the best thing to be.

The people of Askr didn’t particularly care, of course. They saw what they wanted to see. The Summoner was not a person to them, they were a legend. Something to be whispered about over drinks or in the marketplace. It was surreal, in some respects - if the Summoner wandered the streets of Askr without their distinctive coat on, no one looked twice. But once that hood came up, suddenly they were something _special._ People stared, pointed, whispered. Was this how it felt to be famous? No wonder no one liked the paparazzi.

(It was worse when Anna had first tried to capitalize on their popularity. Thankfully, Alfonse had taken their side, and so she was not allowed to auction off their free time to the highest bidder, no matter how much it would help them financially.)

Most of the time, it made them feel awkward and out of place. They weren’t that special, they weren’t a great hero, why did everyone have to stare like they were sitting in a museum display? Couldn’t they mind their own business? They’d always shrink a little closer to whoever was guarding them when it happened.

But sometimes, it had its perks.

They passed through a village on the way to the literal gates of Hel. It was that same small village they had saved during their first encounter with Hel, even. It was…uplifting, to know that these people still lived because of their deeds, even if the entire thing had ended poorly overall. They weren’t staying long - just passing through - but the people still lined up on the side of the roads to watch them go by.

At the sight of them marching right alongside Alfonse and Sharena, the people broke into cheers. They cried out in joy, praising the gods for the fact that their prince and princess were fighting to save them, that the legendary Summoner was on their side. People thanked them for saving them before. Several children had run up and offered them all flowers. It wasn’t just the three of them that got the attention - the other Heroes were also hailed enthusiastically - but the majority of it all was for the three of them.

They saw what they wanted to see. Alfonse was the stalwart prince, rising up to defend his people. Sharena was the brilliant princess, the soul of Askr, bright even in the face of such horrors. The Summoner was Victory walking at their side, a promise that when all was said and done it would be Askr that triumphed, and they would know peace.

It didn’t matter that Alfonse still carried so much guilt over his father’s death that he struggled to maintain an appetite. It didn’t matter that Sharena sometimes felt that she wasn’t doing enough as a princess, that her cheer was sometimes forced for the benefit of others. It didn’t matter that the Summoner was just another person struggling to make the best of an awful situation.

But, looking out at the faces around them, at the light and joy and hope, the Summoner couldn’t say they minded the misconception. Today, the stares didn’t feel so heavy. In fact, the amount of faith these people had in them made them feel lighter, somehow. So long as they kept fighting, the people of Askr would hold on to hope. And so long as the people of Askr had hope, they could all push themselves to keep fighting. Glancing at the prince and princess beside them, they could see they felt the same.

If the Summoner could chose one thing to be a symbol of, they’d pick hope.

(It was Alfonse that pointed out that they already were one, even if no one had stated it aloud. Sharena had cheerfully pointed out how their presence had completely revitalized not just Askr, but Nifl as well, even when things had looked their bleakest. They had flushed at the praise and pointed out that those two had much the same effect. They wouldn’t have been able to keep going without Alfonse and Sharena beside them.)

* * *

What were they thinking, doing this? What were they expecting to find?

Wandering the broken remains of the castle of the Askran royal family was…an experience. They didn’t know their way around very well, not the way they knew the Order’s keep, but something compelled them to wander anyways. Alfonse and the rest were still buried in books, researching. They had told the others that they were going for a quick walk, to clear their head. After learning who Líf really was, they needed it. The others had probably assumed that they would stay in the library, and originally they had intended to, but…

Well, their feet had carried them elsewhere.

They didn’t know where this passage led, but there was a faint light down there, and they wanted to investigate. They knew it might be an ambush, that they should probably go back and tell the others and come with a team, but…something told them it was fine. Instinct was telling them that they were perfectly safe.

They descended into what looked like an underground vault. It was stone, with archways and recesses and stone coffins with names carved into them - a crypt? Yes, this was a crypt. They remembered this place now, it was where King Gustav had been laid to rest. It was harder to recognize without the myriad candles and flowers, but they remembered.

The place was cold, now. Cold and empty, just like the rest of the castle. They shivered, pulling their coat tighter around them. The light from their little lantern seemed to be swallowed up by the darkness all round them. They remembered the castle being inviting, friendly. Even when the kingdom was in mourning, it had still felt alive. This…this was so different. The despair of this world’s fate had sunken into the very foundations, and it seemed all the greater when they were surrounded by the memorials of the dead.

The faint glow was coming from deeper in. It was a cool blue, its shade familiar for all they had only seen it a handful of times. They came to the alcove where the recently deceased were allowed to lay in state, for all to pay respects.

Líf stood between the two biers, and the Summoner knew why they felt safe here. How could they ever be afraid when they were with Alfonse?

He ignored them, at first. He couldn’t have missed their arrival - not with the lantern casting long shadows on the walls, or the way their footsteps had echoed. But he kept his back to them, staring instead at the figures laying before them both. The Summoner carefully stepped closer, peering around his cape to get a better look at who was here.

They froze when they saw Sharena.

It was wrong to see Sharena, who was always so full of energy, whose smile was pure sunlight, laying so still with her hands folded over her chest. Flowers - the kind the Summoner recalled were her favorites - lay all around her, making her look like something out of a fairytale. They half expected to be able to wake her with true love’s kiss.

It was one thing to know that the Sharena of this world had died - it was something else entirely to _see_ it before them. They swallowed roughly, blinking away tears.

(They had hugged her tightly when they’d seen her next, though they never told her why. The sight of her, so still and cold, haunted them. Sharena was meant to be bright and brilliant and _alive,_ and they were going to do everything they could to keep her that way.)

They slowly wiped away the wetness from their eyes and turned to the other bier. The sight of the body upon it had their breath hitching.

There was nothing quite as unsettling as standing before one’s own corpse.

They were laid out much as Sharena was, hands folded over their chest, dressed in the clothes they had first come to Askr in and the coat that marked them as the Summoner. Flowers surrounded them, too - vaguely they recalled making an offhand comment about liking the color of those particular blooms. Alfonse had remembered that? It would be heartwarming, were this entire situation not so tragic.

_Why are you here?_

Now that they knew it was him, they could tell that Líf’s voice was Alfonse’s. Older, exhausted, rougher, but still Alfonse. It made them want to reach out and take his hand, just like they had done at Gustav’s funeral. They started to, but Líf drew away before they could touch him. Instead their hand hung in the air between them, even as Líf turned to stare. Gone was the determination of earlier, the fury (or was it envy?) from the battle in the library. Now he just looked tired, like all he wanted to do was climb onto a bier of his own and never get up again. It was enough to prompt more tears.

 _Why are you here?_ Líf asked again, voice harsh - but the sort of harsh that made them think he was trying not to break. _You must know I aim to kill you._

They stared at each other for a moment, before finally the Summoner couldn’t take it anymore. _I’m sorry._

Líf blinked. Whatever he had anticipated, that was not it. His mask covered his face, but he still tilted his head, just slightly, in confusion and concern, his brow furrowing just so. Just like Alfonse always did when they said something that had him worried.

 _I’m sorry,_ the Summoner repeated, voice cracking over the words, _I’m sorry I wasn’t enough. I’m sorry I wasn’t the legendary hero you needed. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more._

Líf flinched as if struck, his eyes widening. The cool blue mist of his breath came out in stuttered spurts. He turned away abruptly, swift steps carrying him to stand beside his Summoner. He reached out as if to trace a finger across their cheek, but hesitated. As if he was unsure if he was allowed to touch them. _If Alfonse could hear you, he would tell you that you are more than enough. That you always have been._ The words were heavy, laced with a depth of emotion - pain and regret and loneliness and under it all, a pure, unwavering affection. They wondered if he had gotten to tell his Summoner that, or if it was one more regret for a man that already had too many. _He would tell you that he is sorry he is not strong enough to keep you from feeling that way. …To keep you safe._

 _They would say you were enough._ Their voice was still raw, but their words were firmer, stronger. They knew this was true. Whatever the differences between Líf’s Summoner and themselves, this was true. _They would tell you that you were their strength when they had none._

Líf exhaled once more, his hand finally tracing its way across his Summoner’s cheek. Even from here, in the dim light, they could see it shaking. _…You should go back._

_I want to help you._

_You cannot help me. No one can._ He turned away from his Summoner and towards his sister, gaze distant. He wouldn’t meet their eyes. _Go back. Alfonse will panic when he realizes you are gone._

He was right, of course. He would know better than anyone, wouldn’t he? Alfonse must have realized they were missing by now, and he would be beside himself with worry. But leaving Líf like this didn’t feel right.

 _Go,_ he said, as if he could read their mind, _I will be leaving soon. I only wished to pay my respects._

(Alfonse found them wandering through the great hall, and just as Líf had said, he was panicking. He grabbed them by the shoulders so tightly it ached and scolded them for being so careless, wild-eyed and breathless. They could feel his hands shaking.

They had wrapped him in a hug and buried their face into his shoulder, and finally the dam broke. _Thank you, Alfonse,_ they had sobbed, _you’ve helped me so much. Please, don’t ever think you aren’t strong enough. You are. I promise you are._

He hadn’t known what to say to that. He’d just returned the embrace with a tight one of his own, rocking them slightly as he tried to soothe their tears and his own racing heart all at once.)

* * *

They couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a full night’s sleep. It must have been years ago now, before they had come to Askr. Now that sort of thing was the stuff only spoken of. A rumor that others claimed was true but couldn’t be believed. Sounds fake, but okay. If they weren’t working late or rising early (or both), it would still elude them. Either they lay in bed, mind racing, unable to just stop for long enough to drift away, or they dreamed.

The dreams were always the worst option.

First it had been the terror of being kidnapped (yes, Askr had kidnapped them, this would never not be true no matter how sorry Alfonse was or how kind Sharena was or how Anna tried to wave it off as no big deal), then watching everyone under them die for their mistakes. Then came the fire and the ash and the screaming, always the screaming. Now the dead pulled their rotting corpses and charred bones from the ground and came for them, blank eyes accusing, voices terribly distorted and words more painful than any weapon.

 _You should have saved us,_ they said. _We believed in you. You were supposed to be more powerful than death._

They would wake up, heaving for air that wouldn’t come fast enough, shivering and blurry-eyed and murmuring desperate pleas — _I tried, I swear I did my best, please I did everything I could, just leave me alone, please please let me have some peace, please I’m begging you—_

The Summoner tended to wander when sleep betrayed them. Patrolling, they told everyone. Really it was just an attempt to wear themselves into exhaustion. If they went to the point of collapse they would be too tired to dream. They avoided others, and so no one knew enough to call them on it, though undoubtedly some suspected. They’d been found unconscious in strange places often enough for everyone to guess.

They did not expect to run into someone else. Literally.

Dimitri caught them before they could fall, apologies spilling from his lips and tumbling over one another in the night air. His movements were lethargic, his hair disheveled, his eyes ringed by dark circles. They asked if he was okay; the question left their mouth before their tired mind could catch up to the situation. Dimitri had stiffened, just a bit, hand pulling away and gaze shifting so that he wasn’t quite looking them in the eye anymore. _I’m fine,_ he told them, _it was just a nightmare._

_You too?_

The words had fallen from their lips before they could think twice. Dimitri stopped short, his gaze snapping back to their own. His face, which had been held in an expression of careful, polite friendliness, softened. The smile that curled his lips was pure and true, for all the sorrow that it carried. There was no pity in his eyes, just a quiet solidarity. He understood.

Dimitri did not answer the question. Instead he replied with one of his own. _Walk with me?_

And that was how they’d ended up wandering through the night hand-in-hand with the prince of Faerghus. They drifted between silence and simple conversation, meandering throughout the keep with no destination in mind. In the end they’d found themselves in the blessed garden of light and dark, sitting on an overlook, watching the stars. Neither of them knew the constellations, so they told stories of the ones from their homes. Eventually they had succumbed to exhaustion, and had stayed there until the rising sun woke them once more.

Before either of them knew it, it was habit to seek one another out when the night terrors became too much. Sometimes they explored the keep in the moonlight, sometimes they found a quiet corner and simply waited out the night. Sometimes they spoke, sometimes they stayed silent. Eventually the details of their respective horrors trickled out, little by little. Always they seemed to end up holding hands, or sleeping on one another’s shoulders, or some other form of physical contact to anchor them in the present. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but the Summoner liked to believe that when they fell asleep next to Dimitri, they woke just slightly more rested. They hoped he felt the same. There was something to be said about solidarity.

(Dimitri wasn’t the only one who had nightmares, and the Summoner knew that well enough. But everyone else had someone to turn to, someone they’d known from before Askr. Dimitri had been the only one from Fódlan at the time, and the Summoner was terrible at finding the words to explain what was wrong and what they needed. That feeling of isolation made the unspoken understanding that much more powerful.)

* * *

It was after a particularly rough battle. Several people had died and been revived, and the Summoner was quite simply emotionally wrung out from it all. They had thought it would have gotten easier, almost three years into this mess (and wasn’t that a horrible thought? That they would expect to be so callous?), but that just plain wasn’t true. It never got easier. They couldn’t remember each and every death anymore, but they all blended together and honestly that was worse.

(There was nothing quite the same sort of horrible as being sleep deprived and catching sight of someone with a snapped neck or bloody stomach or shattered ribcage, only to turn and see they were fine. Not when those hallucinations weren’t a figment out of the imagination, but a memory made manifest.)

Byleth had invited them to tea.

Byleth was one of the strangest Heroes they had called. Almost like Idunn, in how much of an un-person they seemed to be, but not quite. The Summoner honestly didn’t know what to think of them. But Byleth was friendly, occasionally inviting them for tea or passing them a flower they’d found…somewhere. They liked Byleth well enough.

They were set up in a quiet corner of the garden of water, listening to the gentle sounds of the distant waterfall and croaking frogs. The tea was soothing and fragrant - they didn’t recognize the blend, something native to Fódlan? - and the small assortment of treats had all the hallmarks of Mercedes’ thoughtful hands. Their conversation started gently, safely. The weather. The lilies in the water. It was peaceful.

But something was off. Byleth was hesitating in a way that just plain wasn’t like them. But the Summoner didn’t know how to bring up the subject, or if they even had the energy to.

Finally Byleth simply said it outright. _I know what you’re feeling._

They had stopped mid-sip. Blinked. Put their teacup down. _…What are you talking about?_

Byleth stared at their own teacup, now empty, for a moment, before lifting their gaze and meeting the Summoner’s head-on. It was a heavy thing, like a physical weight on their chest. The Summoner wondered if it was normal to forget how to breathe when someone looked at them like that.

 _Watching everyone die. Bringing them back. I understand._ It was a good thing the Summoner had put their teacup down, because they would have dropped it at that. Byleth continued, with a calm that was eerie, explaining the divine power they had for reasons they couldn’t rightly explain, the responsibilities that had been put on their shoulders without any thought of if they were even ready to handle them. How they had watched each of their students die because of mistakes they had made, and how they had undone that death, and how even now it still haunted them.

(The Summoner couldn’t help but wonder which was worse - for everyone to remember how their lives had been cut short, or for them to forget and never realize how much the person that was struggling to save them suffered for the losses undone?)

The Summoner stared, unable to think of a response, or even identify what it was they were feeling. Was this horror? Despair? Pity? All at once, or none at all?

Before they knew what was happening, they had reached out and taken Byleth’s hand. Their grip was tight, probably tighter than it should have been. Byleth could probably feel it shaking.

Byleth gave them the slightest smile.

(After that, whenever someone fell in battle, it became custom for the Summoner and Byleth to have tea. It never made the deaths any easier, but it made them feel less alone. And in the end, that was enough.)

* * *

They had not been ready for him to die.

They’d known it was coming. They’d known it would have to happen. But a part of them had hoped that they could reach out to Líf, could somehow save him. He was Alfonse, wasn’t he? And Alfonse would do anything for them.

(And hadn’t Líf proven that to be true? He was willing to destroy an entire world in the hope that he could bring back his Summoner and his sister. They would not have asked it of him, would never ask it of him, but he was willing to lose himself if it meant he could find them again.)

In the end, all they could do was kneel next to him and hold his hand as he passed. Alfonse, their Alfonse, stood beside them, a gentle hand on their shoulder, a reassurance. Líf spoke his peace to his counterpart, and then turned to them, gaze softening in a way that made tears prick at their eyes. _Why do you weep for me? I’m not your Alfonse._ They had shaken their head, unable to find the words. He might not have been their Alfonse, but he was still _Alfonse_ , and his tragedy still broke their heart in two. Why wouldn’t they cry for him? _You always were too soft,_ he had said, voice fond even as it faded.

 _You would know,_ they managed to whisper, _you’re just the same._

Líf had exhaled a slight laugh at that. In disbelief? In affection? They would never know. He was gone.

He was gone, but they were going to make every sacrifice his world had made _mean_ something. For him and his Sharena and his Summoner, for Thrasir and her Bruno, for everyone else that had been lost. Hel would get what was coming to her.

(They had clung to Alfonse when Líf’s body had faded, and he to them. They were not the legend everyone said they were, and Líf had learned that the hard way. But Alfonse held their hand tighter and whispered solemnly, _You don’t have to be. We’re all with you. Even if you falter, I will be there._ )

* * *

When the time came for them to stand before Hel, ready for battle, they were not afraid.

 _You cannot fight death,_ she told them, as she had each time they'd faced her, over and over again.

But she was not death. They knew death, with all the intimacy of an old friend. She was merely a tyrant who believed herself deserving of more than she had for her willingness to inflict pain and terror upon the world. They had brought many such tyrants to heel, taken even world-ending dragons and made them their own, had lost everything they’d ever known and then watched those they gained in exchange die again and again and _again_ and not given up. They stood still, battered and chipped but yet unbroken, triumphant over even the most dire of circumstances.

Armed with the trust of those willing to bet their lives on them as many times as it took, they held their head high. They were not infallible, they were not the legend the people thought they were. But today, here, now, they would become Victory. For the people that believed in them, they would do no less.

 _Didn’t you know?_ The Summoner replied, chin tilting upwards, staring down the queen of the damned in defiance.

**_Death has no power over me._ **

**Author's Note:**

> I originally started writing this during the last couple of chapters in book 3 but then Things Happened and I couldn't finish it. So consider it my celebration of the blueberry blacklight coming home instead. (Lif. I'm talking about Lif.)
> 
> The summoner's situation is frankly both heartbreaking and terrifying if you stop to think about it. Like, I knew that from the get-go, but fuck, Anna's comment there just makes it worse.


End file.
